Chapter 3 - Convict #2
"Walsh's people," I say with certainty. "Waiting for confirmation I'm dead."
Rebecca stares at the screen. "How do you know?"
"Trust me. I know what outside muscle looks like." I study the other screens, forming a mental map. "They've got the front covered. We definitely need the loading dock."
As I turn to leave, another screen catches my attention.
It shows a hallway not far from our current position.
Three men are moving, checking rooms as they go.
One of them is the redheaded man with the shamrock tattoo—Shamrock, as I've been calling him in my head.
He's limping but determined, a fresh bandage on his leg where I stabbed him.
"They're hunting us," Rebecca whispers, following my gaze.
"No," I correct her, noting their path. "They're hunting me. You're just collateral." I turn to face her fully. "Rebecca, I need you to listen carefully. This is your chance to save yourself."
Her eyes narrow. "What are you talking about?"
"They don't care about you. If we split up, you can make it to safety while I lead them away."
"And then what? You bleed out in some corner of the prison?" She shakes her head firmly. "Not happening."
"You don't owe me anything."
"This isn't about owing. This is about not abandoning someone who needs medical care." Her jaw sets stubbornly. "We stick together."
I should argue. It's the logical move. But something selfish in me is grateful for her refusal. Not just because I need her medical skills, but because in this nightmare, her presence is the one thing keeping me grounded.
"Okay," I concede. "Together. But we need to move fast. They're getting closer."
We leave the security office and continue down the corridor, moving as quietly as possible. The loading dock is on the lowest level, requiring us to find stairs down.
As we round a corner, we nearly collide with a prison guard. Young guy, probably new, looking terrified. His eyes widen at the sight of me—bloody, armed with a shank, clearly an inmate.
He reaches for his radio, but I'm faster despite my injury. I slam him against the wall, pressing the shank to his throat.
"Don't," I warn quietly.
The guard freezes, eyes darting between me and Rebecca.
"Please," Rebecca steps forward, hands raised placatingly. "We're not going to hurt you. We just need to get out."
The guard swallows hard. "You're... you're with him? Willingly?"
"Yes," she says firmly. "He protected me during the riot. We just want to get somewhere safe."
I can see the guard processing this, confusion written across his young face. "The CERT team is retaking the east wing right now. They'll secure this area soon."
"Where are they now exactly?" I ask, keeping my voice calm but maintaining pressure on the shank.
"B block. Moving toward C."
Good information. That gives us time.
"Keys," I say, nodding toward the ring on his belt. "Hand them over."
He hesitates, then slowly reaches down and unclips the key ring. I take it with my free hand.
"Radio too."
He surrenders his radio.
"What's your name?" Rebecca asks him suddenly.
"M-Miller. Officer Miller."
"Officer Miller, I'm Nurse Johnson. I need you to tell me the fastest way to the loading dock from here."
Her calm, professional tone seems to steady him. "Down this hall, take the left stairwell to basement level, then follow the signs for Receiving."
I ease the pressure of the blade but don't remove it completely. "Is there anyone stationed at the loading dock right now?"
"Shouldn't be. Everyone was called to help contain the riot."
I nod, then make a decision. "Turn around, hands against the wall."
He complies, trembling slightly. I use his own handcuffs to secure him to a pipe running along the wall, tight enough to hold him but not enough to cut off circulation.
"Someone will find you soon," I tell him, pocketing his keys and radio. "Sorry about this."
Rebecca gives him one last apologetic look, then we're moving again, following his directions toward the stairwell.
"You didn't hurt him," she observes quietly as we descend the stairs.
"I'm not a monster, Rebecca. Just a thief who got caught."
"A thief with people trying very hard to kill him."
"Yeah, well, apparently I stole from the wrong person."
We reach the basement level, pushing through a heavy door into a dimly lit corridor. Signs point toward 'Receiving & Shipping' to the right.
The basement is quieter, the sounds of the riot muffled by concrete and distance. Our footsteps echo slightly as we move.
"Almost there," Rebecca murmurs.
We turn a final corner and see the loading dock ahead—a large open area with high ceilings and roll-up doors for delivery trucks. It's deserted, just as Officer Miller said.
One of the smaller doors is slightly ajar, daylight visible through the crack. Freedom, just yards away.
I grab Rebecca's hand, squeezing it once. "Ready?"
She nods, her eyes meeting mine with determination. "Ready."
We move toward the door together, hope rising with each step. But as we reach it, the radio I took from Officer Miller crackles to life.
"Miller, report your position." A sharp voice cuts through the silence. "We have three inmates heading your way, possibly armed. One with a shamrock neck tattoo. Considered extremely dangerous."
Rebecca and I freeze, staring at the radio. If they don't get a response, they'll know something's wrong.
I press the transmit button. "Miller here," I say, trying to disguise my voice. "All clear in the administrative wing. Moving to assist in C block."
A pause, then: "Negative, Miller. Return to your post by the staff exit. Walsh's men are specifically headed that way."
Rebecca's eyes widen. Walsh's men. The guard knows them by name.
"Copy that," I respond, then click off the radio.
"The guards know about Walsh," Rebecca whispers. "They're working with him?"
"Some of them, maybe." I push open the door wider, checking outside. The loading area seems clear. "Money talks, especially to underpaid prison guards."
We step outside into the late afternoon sun. The loading area is a concrete pad with a chain-link fence surrounding it. Beyond that, a staff parking lot, then woods.
Freedom. So close.
A shout from inside the building destroys the moment. They've found Officer Miller.
"Run," I tell Rebecca, gripping her hand tighter. "Now!"
We sprint across the concrete pad toward the fence. My wound screams in protest, fresh blood soaking the bandage, but adrenaline keeps me moving.
The fence is high, topped with barbed wire. A gate stands to one side, padlocked and heavy-duty. I pull out Officer Miller's keys, frantically trying them in the lock as shouts grow closer behind us.
"Come on, come on," I mutter, trying key after key.
"Thompson!" Rebecca's voice is urgent. She points toward the building.
Shamrock and his two companions burst through the loading dock door, spotting us immediately. One raises what looks like a real gun—not a prison shank. They've got outside help for sure.
The fifth key clicks in the lock. I yank it open, pushing Rebecca through.
"Go!" I command, following right behind her.
A shot rings out, the bullet pinging off the fence post inches from my head. I slam the gate shut behind us just as another shot fires.
Rebecca pulls me toward the tree line, surprisingly strong for her size. We crash into the woods together as more shots follow, splintering tree bark around us.
"Keep going!" I gasp, pushing through pain that threatens to drop me to my knees. "Don't stop!"
We run deeper into the woods, the sounds of pursuit fading slightly behind us. Rebecca guides me over fallen logs, around thick undergrowth, moving with surprising confidence through the forest.
"You know these woods?" I manage between labored breaths.
"I hike here sometimes," she replies, not slowing. "There's a service road about half a mile ahead."
I focus on keeping my feet moving, one after the other. The pain in my side is blinding now, each step sending fresh agony through my body. But stopping means dying, and I'm not ready for that. Not when freedom was so close. Not when Rebecca is risking everything to help me.
The trees thin ahead, revealing the promised service road—little more than a dirt track, but a path out nonetheless.
"Now what?" Rebecca asks, both of us stopping to catch our breath.
I pull out Officer Miller's radio again, listening. They're coordinating a search, spreading out through the woods. We don't have much time.
"We need transport," I say, thinking quickly. "And I need to contact my brother."
"There's a gas station about two miles down this road," Rebecca offers. "They have a pay phone."
Two miles. In my condition, it might as well be twenty. But there's no alternative.
"Lead the way," I say, straightening up despite the pain. "And Rebecca?"
She turns to me, face flushed from running, curls wild around her face. Even in these circumstances, even covered in my blood and dirt from the forest floor, she's beautiful in a way that tightens my chest.
"Thank you," I say simply. "For everything."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, and then she nods once.
"Let's go find your brother," she says, and turns toward the road that represents our only hope of escape.